


Inconvenience and Forgiveness

by OmalleyMeetsTibbs



Series: Tumblr Posts [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock pulls his hair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:21:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25066069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OmalleyMeetsTibbs/pseuds/OmalleyMeetsTibbs
Summary: Sherlock and John have a domestic, and then they make up.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Tumblr Posts [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1782187
Comments: 7
Kudos: 87





	Inconvenience and Forgiveness

It had been three days since Sherlock had worked a case. Two weeks since one that sufficiently engaged his mind. Four months since he had had anything over a seven. Which is why on this particular Sunday at the end of January, when it is too cold, too wet, and altogether too dreary to leave the flat, Sherlock shatters, his shrapnel ripping John to pieces. He had spent the last few days trying to engage himself in experiments, but ended up mostly just flopping around from one piece of furniture to another, intermittently using the floor or John, several times the counter, and one absurd and memorable occurrence—atop the fridge “just to see what it was like.” John had been patient, trying to wait out the “black mood”, offer ways out of it if possible. It is when he drapes himself across the table in the kitchen that John puts his foot down, needing a space to prep food and eat without a lanky, sulking consulting detective in the way. 

With his head turned to the ceiling in a silent prayer to a God he isn’t sure he believes in, jaw clenched, hands forcibly clenching and unclenching, he lets out an exasperated huff. “Sherlock, you cannot _possibly_ take up this much bloody space, you inconvenient bastard! I have to have _some_ place that I know won’t be claimed by you when I am in the middle of something. For God’s sake, Sherlock!” 

In a sweep of long limbs, Sherlock stands toe to toe in front of a red-faced John—foreheads almost touching, exuding impertinence and aggression, staring hard into John’s eyes. “Well then, leave. If I’m such an _inconvenience_ for you, it’d be better if you aren’t here. I’m sure we would _both_ appreciate it.” he says, voice deep and quiet, acid seeping through his tone and burning holes through John’s chest before dripping his heart out onto the floor for Sherlock to smear with his heel. 

John defiantly stares back into Sherlock’s eyes, stuffing down the pain of those words. “Fine.” He turns before Sherlock has a chance to read the despair on his face, marches up to his room to pack his duffle, and leaves. 

Sherlock hasn’t moved from his stance in the kitchen. He didn’t expect John to actually leave. But if that is the way it is, then fine. So be it. Sherlock doesn’t need anybody; alone protects him. Even if he had finally admitted John was a friend, allowed himself to open his heart to create this make-shift family of Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and Molly. He can’t think about that. He just has to find a way to stop being bored. And if John isn’t going to help anymore, that is fine. Isn’t it? 

———

John isn’t sure where he is going, but he knows he needs a place to crash, even if just for the night. For how much those words destroyed him and place burning coals in his veins, he still knew Sherlock didn’t mean them, not truly. But John needs space from him, a chance to recoup. Of course, that’s when the sleek black car pulls up to the curb. Mycroft. Although John doesn’t want to deal with him, the poor weather causes his shoulder to ache. He climbs into the car. 

“Hello, John. I assume my brother was being an insufferable prick yet again? Quite right. Would you like to stay at mine or Lestrade’s? I’ve already contacted him to let him know you would be needing a place tonight if you were amendable.” All this is said in his usual flat tone, punctuated with eyebrow raises and pointed looks determining John’s responses and questions before they are spoken. 

“Lestrade’s, if you wouldn’t mind,” John states in a tone not welcoming further conversation.

With a mild raise of an eyebrow, he says, “Not in the slightest,” and directs the driver. 

———

It isn’t fine. John Watson is his conductor of light, keeps him right; he needs him. He just didn’t realize quite how much until now. But he left. He won’t be coming back. No one ever comes back. 

Sherlock slips underneath the dark waters of his mind, drowning slowly and gasping for air. The day turns to night and the night back to day. Sherlock doesn’t sleep but also no longer present to reality. This is how John finds him—curled into his leather chair, hands pulling his dark curls taught, breath shallow and quick, completely separated from the world. John runs over to him, gently placing his hands over Sherlock’s to loosen the pull on his hair. 

“Sherlock, hey, come on. Look at me. Sherlock. Sherlock, come on.” John urges gently and persistently, hoping to guide him back to the physical world and out of his mind. Ever so slowly, Sherlock resurfaces. 

“John?” He blinks at the sudden brightness of the room, his eyes focusing. A frown forms on his face. “If you are back for the rest of your things, please take them and leave me be. I will do my best to not inconvenience you as you do.” His voice pleading and broken, raspy with lack of use and the pain racking through his chest, closing up his throat. John’s face falls. 

“No, Sherlock, I’m not moving out. I only planned on being gone for the night. I needed space to calm down. But I am not leaving you. I couldn’t. And I don’t want to. You were just driving me up the wall, and I needed the space.” 

As John talks, he rubs his thumbs over the cold, sore joints of Sherlock’s hands. This is when Sherlock finally realizes John’s hands are still clasping his. Looking down at their entwined fingers and then up into John’s eyes, Sherlock sees everything there, the worry, the pain, the love. Oh. _Oh._

John loves him. John _loves_ him. He actually means it. He doesn’t want to leave. He’ll keep coming back. Sherlock sits up, keeping his eyes locked on John as he does. 

“You love me,” he says reverently, quietly, barely filling the space between them. John’s eyes widen, and he starts to pull away. Sherlock stops him. “Tell me. Am I right?” 

John shakes his head slightly, knowing he can’t hide it now and not sure he wants to. “Yes. Of course, of course, I do,” he responds just a reverently. 

Eyes flit across John’s face, checking for the truth. A weak, shy smile sneaks its way onto Sherlock’s face, and he asks, “Does this mean I can kiss you now?”

John does not expect that, and his eyes widen at the question. He had been sure of rejection and instead received so much more than he could have hoped for. After letting the words put his heart back into his chest, he grins back tentatively and gives a short nod. Sherlock pulls him forward with their entwined hands, arranging John’s hands on his waist before releasing one to cup the nape of John’s head. Fingers tangle into the soft hair there. Turning his head, he leans his forehead against John’s, taking a moment to share breath together. Then, tentatively, Sherlock presses their lips together, and, oh. It's warm and dry and the nicest sensation he has ever experienced. John’s lips slide across his, pulling Sherlock’s lower lip in-between his own. When he does, fire and ice explode through Sherlock’s veins, overwhelming and consuming him. Before he can catalogue the flavor of John’s mouth, Sherlock pulls back, inhaling sharply. John’s brows knit together in confusion and concern.

At that, Sherlock calms him with a soft expression and a smile, saying, “That was more wonderful than I ever imagined it to be.” 


End file.
